What I Learned in Obedience School

Rocky at 3 months.

Somehow I managed to avoid dog ownership until last year when Jack finally wore down his dad with requests for a puppy. He picked out a mutt from the Human Society shelter and named him Rocky. He was a mixture of God only knows what breeds. The vet's best guess is that he is part Australia Cattle Dog. He's a sweet pup with boundless energy.

Rocky took up residence in my ex-husband's backyard and I agreed to help out as needed. He is "Jack's dog" but of course, as is typical for kids, the ownership is only in name. Since I knew next to nothing about dogs when Rocky reached about 6 months old we signed up for obedience class at the local Petsmart. From the first class it became apparent that Rocky wasn't the only one who needed training.

Over the course of our six Saturday morning classes, we learned—with help of dog treats and a blue plastic cricket clicker—how to sit, stay, shake hands and walk on a loose leash. But one of the most useful commands was "Leave it!" This is an all-purpose directive can be used whenever a dog shows overly enthusiastic interest in anything you don't want them to approach. The idea is that whenever a dog goes after something really desirable, such as another dog, or another dog's poop or a baby with an ice cream cone, or whatever, that you condition the dog to leave that desired thing and come to your side and sit. This repeated action of returning to their person's side resets the dog's urge to compulsively run after anything and everything of interest. Of course, favorable behavior is reinforced by providing treats each time the dog leaves the coveted item and sits down beside you. The idea is that—eventually—the dog learns to overcome his distractions by merely being reminded via vocal cue.

Jack with Rocky at Puppy School!

After our instructor explained the exercise, she set us loose  in the aisles of Petsmart to practice. I thought she was insane. Have you seen the aisles of Petsmart?  It's a fantasy land for dogs! We could only walk about two steps before Rocky tugged at the end of his leash. My arm was already growing tired from holding him back from shelves of chew toys and stacks and stacks doggie delights. At first, I was very frustrated. How could Rocky ever learn when there were so many wonderful scents? Rocky tugged this way and that, trying to get at all the wonderful dog stuff. He didn't want to "Leave it!" 

When the instructor stopped by to see how we were doing, she could tell I was a bit miffed—to put it nicely. 

"Can we go to aquarium supply aisle?" I whined. "There are just way too many distractions here! He'll never learn."

"He'll get used to it," she said, smiling patiently. "There are going to be even more enticing smells when you take him for a walk outside. Keep working with him. He's a smart dog. He'll learn."

I was dubious, but to my surprise after a few false starts and stops, Rocky began to catch on. As it turns out, Rocky's love of treats far outweighed his desire to sniff stuff. After walking up and down the aisles a few times successfully, Jack set out an entire obstacle course of sexy-looking chew toys. Rocky was able to navigate around them all without getting distracted. 

Each week, we worked on these skills and after the six week course was complete, we graduated from Puppy School with honors. Okay, we graduated. Okay, we completed the course and for that we received a diploma, but as the trainer warned us, the real work was ahead of us—out in the real world. 

Leaving a rubber, squeaky bone lying in the aisle of a bright, sterile pet food store is one thing, but a stroll through the neighborhood supplied an infinite number of opportunities to challenge Rocky's obedience degree. Every two inches there was a new distraction. We didn't get but a few feet down the street before he tugged the leash longingly as he lusted after the neighbor's azalea bush. "Leave it, Rocky!" I said sternly and clicked the plastic cricket.

As we rounded the street corner, he tugged to sniff a mound of monkey grass laced with the scent of a countless dogs, cats, rodents and God only knows what, but finally he came back to my side to gobble down his treat. After the first few blocks, we strolled along nicely until he encountered the one temptation that no amount of kibble could prevent Rocky from lunging after: grey squirrels. 

There must be a million grey squirrels living within a mile radius of Jack's dad's house. Every one of them came out to taunt and tease our poor dog. "Leave it, Rocky! Leave it!" became my mantra. Rocky wanted to run after them so badly, he almost launched himself into the air. Of course, he was tethered to  me by his nylon leash, but that didn't seem to matter when it came to all things squirrel. He needs more practice for sure, and the only way to break him of this habit of chasing after these teasing, fluffy-tailed distractions was to spend more time reinforcing the behavior to leave it—no matter what.

Of course, Rocky is not the only one who is easily distracted. My mind is often filled with "grey squirrels" that I desperately want to chase. I am easily side-tracked by chattering discursive thoughts. Some days they lead me to—quite literally—bark up the wrong tree. I can observe this tendency whenever I sit down to meditate, but when I'm not on the cushion, the squirrels in my brain can be much more damaging as they compulsively gnaw away at my positive mood and serenity. I'm going about my day and suddenly a negative or worrisome thought scurries across my mind and I lunge for it. Unlike Rocky, my mind is not on a short leash, so I can chase after that negative idea all day if I don't recognize my thought process and tell myself to "Leave it!" 

Setting aside anxiety is not easy. Even though there is nothing I can do about a situation—I know I have no power over the person, place or thing—I still want to race after it. My only hope of finding peace is to take my mind to obedience school and learn some new strategies for letting go. Like Rocky, I must  replace my habit of chasing squirrels with the desire to sit patiently and be rewarded. This takes effort and practice and it can't be accomplished unless I am willing to experience life on life's terms. In other words, I can't stay in the aquarium section.

If I want to improve the way I respond to life, I must be willing to experience the real crap that triggers my negative responses. What's my reward? Something much better than kibble. When I refuse to chase that miserable squirrel across the yard and up a tree, I gulp down a little peace of mind and the satisfaction. Good girl!

Threadbare and lovin' it

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby."

Recently I was invited to join the faculty of an organization called the Institute for Conscious Being. At first I thought they had the wrong number. I found myself teaching a writing course and surrounded by an incredibly brilliant group of people. Faculty members include an Episcopal priest, a Catholic nun, an Harvard-trained clinical psychologist and a New York Times best-selling author. (Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? As in, "A priest, a nun and a psychologist went into a bar...")  I have to say it's a dream come true. Four years ago, I was an unemployed editor struggling with divorce and some very difficult issues. How in the world did I end up here? I believe I arrived at this very wonderful destination by owning up to my true self.

The Institute uses the principles of the Enneagram as a method for discovering one’s true spiritual self.  And no, despite it's odd-sounding name, the Enneagram has nothing to do with witchcraft or the occult and it's not a parlor game. (Read more about it here—and take the free assessment.) 

The idea behind the Enneagram is that we all are born in divine perfection and over the years, we put on all sorts of armor to shield us from the crappy things that happen to us along the way. For example, I'm six years old, and my beloved cat runs away and I'm inconsolable. Boom! Up goes armor. My dad has to work and misses my performance in the school play. Armor up! My best friend puts a preying mantis in my Snoopy lunch box then makes fun of  me while I scream my head off in the lunchroom. Armor! After my first date, I make out with the boy and then he tells everyone that I'm the worst kisser in the world. You guessed it—up goes the armor! 

These are minor offenses, of course. You can imagine (or know) what happens when really terrible things happen, when family members die, or you're abused or abandoned by a parent. The armor goes up and we learn to respond to life in a manner than seems to relieve the pain. Of course, this armor is ego. And ego is not an all-together evil thing, but often in the process of trying to protect ourselves, we buy into the ego self and set aside healthy and true aspects of our personality. Then, at some point in our lives (a-hem! often around middle age) when the old, unhealthy responses no longer bring relief—and in fact may be causing more harm—we finally look for a better way to live.

Returning to my authentic self seemed scary at first. I mean, I looked sorta cool in my armor. What if I'm just a big nerd beneath it all? And yet, only when I remove that hardened shell can I know what it means to be truly alive.

Last night, I was reminded of a beautiful story that encapsulates the concept of finding one's true self. This wisdom comes from a beloved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit. In this passage the story's hero, the Velveteen Rabbit, is chatting with the Skin Horse, another toy/resident of the nursery where they live. Rabbit asks Horse what it means to be real.

“'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' 

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' 

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'” 

In her book, Daring Greatly, author and researcher Brene Brown describes this passage from Margery Williams' classic as "a beautiful reminder of how much easier it is to become real when we know we're loved." I respectfully submit the converse is also true: 

It's easier to be loved when we know we are real. 

Being real may not feel easier at first, but only when I'm my authentic, honest self am I truly lovable. Anything short of really real and you may love me, but your love will be on condition of my ability to keep up a facade. When I am 100% myself, I know I am loved unconditionally.

Maybe this is why people in mid-life (like me) tend to have identity crises. We are finally ready to get real. Certainly, at this point in my life, my hair is thinning, my eyes are getting weak (must get bifocals!), my joints creak and I'm a bit shabby, but my sharp edges have been worn smooth and I can no longer be broken quite so easily. 

Birds of the Air

At the lake this weekend we found a nest on the dock set up by a dutiful mother bird. The tangle of grass and sticks was built right on top of the receiver in a cabinet that holds the stereo system. With great care, my friends who own the lake house gently removed the nest and the four chicks inside and placed them in a cardboard box on the dock. We were told (by someone who rescues wild critters and nurses them to health) that the mother would come for them. Although we all doubted the ability or the probablity of a mother bird to swoop down and carry off her young ‘uns, we had hope that this might happen, and yet, on that first night, there was no sign of momma. 

Jason cradles one of the funny-looking chicks.

My friend Janet fed the chicks ground beef leftover from the hamburgers we grilled for dinner and we tried not to think about the fate of the babies. Already these little lives touched our lives and life of their mother and the environment in so many ways. Of course, I don’t know how these little creatures will affect us each of us, but they will and have and will continue to. (You're reading this blog, so you'll be affected too.) That’s just the way life works. 

When I say that we are all interconnected, I don’t mean in a woo-woo, supernatural, New Agey way. And I don't even mean that our fate on this planet is all bound together in a ecological manner, which I believe it is. When I say we are all interconnected, I believe it means that every life touches and influences every other life in some way great or subtle. And every great or subtle nudge moves me and you and that dude in a bow tie who's walking down 5th Avenue,* in some way and gently prompts us to look up or down or see things we haven’t seen before—or shut down and refuse to speak at all.

Nothing is wasted. Every action is essential. No life is insignificant.

Saturday passed, and there was no sign of the mother bird. Again, my dear friend poked hamburger into the gaping mouths of the hungry babies. Only two were still alive. I wondered if the effort was futile, but I loved my friend for trying. We were all saddened by the sound of the baby birds' cries. After she fed the chicks, they quieted down for the night, stomachs full. My friend worried that she did not have a dropper to give them water. Would they die of dehydration?  Fortunately, God—in the form of Nature—provided what we could not. Sunday arrived with thunder and rain showers. We watched movies inside my friend's snug house and played cards on the covered porch. The cardboard box that held the fledgelings grew damp, but at least the chicks' thirst was quenched. 

By mid-afternoon the clouds began to clear and the sun came out. The children ran outside to play and everyone followed. As my friend and I sat on the dock and talked, we heard a commotion coming from the box on the far edge of dock. I turned my head in time to see the shadow of a bird dip down into the box and then fly away. We cheered, "She's doing it! The mother is feeding them!" Sure enough the mother bird returned with her beak filled with wriggling dinner for her surviving children. Their fate was still not certain, but the babies were being cared for, this we knew—and it was a relief for many reasons.

In this world, we want to know that mommas will return to care for their young and that the weak will survive. We want to see signs of compassion in the natural order of life. If we do not see these signs in nature, what hope can we have for ourselves? I'm reminded again of that verse from Matthew 6 in the New Testament that I love so much. (Yes, I'm quoting the Bible. Get over it!)

"Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? ... So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself." 

* Even from my Alabama home, I rest assured that there is almost always a dude in a bow tie walking down 5th Avenue at any given time. And if not, there'll be a bow tie-wearing dude coming along soon enough.

Sum of the Parts

Sixth grade algebra isn't just about finding the variables.
(image from The Things We Say)

I love math. Yes, this card-carrying English major has a definitive  math jones. I love math's logic and black and white answers. In a world of words where meaning  shifts with context, the constancy of math is refreshingly straightforward. An answer is right or wrong. As much as I try not to judge, having one area in my life that I can rely upon to be absolutely correct or incorrect is a relief.
   This year, Jack studied the basic principles of algebra and my math-geek heart was soothed with remembrance of the thrill of discovering The Answer. (I warned you. I'm a math nerd.) I used to make excuses for my penchant for logical equations but now I realize why I love math so much. Math is cause and effect. If this, then that. Math is karma, except the Buddhist principle of karma (cause and effect) is not quite as straightforward or predictable.

   In the karmic equation, there are far more variables  but the principle is the same. My accomplishments and actions in this life are the sum of every experience I've ever had, every person I've met, every emotion I've felt, every response I've given to every emotion. Buddhism prescribes that this moment is born from the previous moment. Think about it. This moment in time (10:42:01.51) could not exist if not for the moment directly before it (10:42:01.50) and so forth.
   Sure there's debate about whether or not time is a concept/illusion created by the human mind/condition, but let's just accept for now that there is some measure of continuum. Not that time is fixed or fluid, matter or anti-matter, but strictly speaking, there is a measure that we will call time to describe the passing of the present moment.
   The present moment passes and begets the next present moment. In so far as I have knowledge, there will always be the next present moment. Just as we know numbers can continue on into infinity, we can see that present moments may continue. The only moment; however, that I have any control over is the present and fleeting one. The present quickly becomes past and thereby, illusive.
   My life consists of an unbroken chain of moments strung together like a (Buddhist) rosary without a definitive beginning or end. Therefore, the person who you know today as Brigid is the product of every moment that happened in this life—and Buddhists would include every moment that happened in my past lives too, from beginningless time. The Brigid you know today is the sum of a whole lotta parts, all of which are in constant flux. This sense of impermanence is a comfort to me because it helps me have compassion for my ego and grants me much-needed humility.
   Although I am responsible for my actions, I am not solely to blame or to praise. Knowing that I do not exist independently from the rest of the world, I am less likely to grow too proud of my accomplishments, nor too ashamed of my misdeeds. Pride and shame are self-centered responses anyway. These feelings can only keep me stuck in the past. For example, although I typed this blog entry from the thoughts that entered my head, all of these thought impulses were informed by experience I've gathered over the past decades. Nothing that I write is 100-percent free of influence. If you've spoken with me or I've experienced or read it within the last 51 years, that knowledge is woven into every word that comes out today in this blog.
   I take great comfort in this knowledge as a writer and a person. I also tread a bit more softly as I go about my work and my life. This is where my karmic equation and the laws of math differ, because even though I know that what I write, say and do will affect other people, I can never predict exactly how. One plus one will equal two, but I cannot know for certain if the answer will be positive or negative—or both. But I do know that every action yields affects on the world around me, and with this in mind I now take a little more time to consider the variables and the outcomes before I begin to cipher.

The Devil Made Me Think It

That devilish voice whispering in my ear may 
not be my enemy after all.

Self doubt can feel like the enemy. Doubt can certainly be a fearsome foe. Perhaps you never experience it. Chances are you do.

Self doubt can cause what is known in my profession as writer's block, a type of sneaking feeling that I am a no-talent sham. In other situations and occupations, self doubt causes all forms of stuckness. Doubt causes the inability to make a decision or move forward for fear that we might make a mistake. Ultimately, doubt causes us to suffer.

More than 2500 years ago a young Indian prince named Guatama Siddhartha wrestled with self doubt—and won. Siddhartha witnessed suffering in the world around him and vowed to find a way to put an end to it. Many people believe he was successful. His tale of enlightenment holds truth to how doubts arise, their value in our lives, and the way to dispel them— if we have the mind to try. Here's my interpretation. I don't believe the tale literally, of course, but it does hold a wonderful psychological perspective into the power of thought. 

On the night of his enlightenment, Siddhartha vowed to meditate until he achieved pure awareness. As night fell, Mara, a powerful demon, entered Siddhartha's consciousness and did his best to distract him from his purpose. Knowing the weaknesses of men, Mara sent his sexy daughters to dance for Siddhartha and seduce him. But the holy man maintained his concentration.

Next, Mara send an infinite army of hideous creatures to attack Siddhartha with poison arrows. But as the arrows flew through the air, the holy man saw them for what they really were. The deadly weapons turned into young sapling shoots and flower blossoms, which perfumed the air around him. 

Frustrated, Mara resorted to his last and most deadly of weapons. He crept very close and whispered in the Siddhartha's ear, "What makes you worthy of enlightenment? Do you think you're better than everyone else? I should be the Enlightened One! I am the rightful heir. Look at all my witnesses!" 

Mara's army stood beside him, attesting to his claim.  And Mara went on and on about how great he was and how Siddhartha was stupid and inept, but Siddhartha remained centered and focused on what was real and present. "You are just a fake and a phony! Why should you become enlightened?" shouted Mara. "Why are you so special? Even if you did become enlightened, no one will know and no one will ever believe you! You have no witness! You've achieved nothing! You are a nobody!"

All this time through temptation and threat of death, Siddhartha remained in deep meditation. But now, as Mara stood before him gloating, he reached forward and touched a single finger to the ground in front of him.

"The Earth is my witness," Siddhartha whispered. 

With that, the Mara disappeared and Siddhartha attained the state of full enlightenment. He became known as Shakyamuni Buddha, The Awakened One.*

But the story doesn't end here. Mara doesn't just descend into Hell and Buddha, into Heaven. Rather, Buddha and Mara continue their relationship on earth. It seems Buddha could not exist without Mara's test and Mara could not exist with the challenge of the Buddha. In his teaching entitled The Mara and Buddha—Embracing Our Suffering, Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh relates the moral of this story.

Years later, Mara visited Buddha and asked that they trade places. Mara was tired of always being the bad guy. He didn't want to be feared and loathed anymore. You'd think Buddha would say "Be gone demon!" but he didn't. He greeted Mara as his dearest friend. He embraced Mara and listened to his problems. The Buddha explained that it wasn't all fun and glory to be the Enlightened One either.  He told Mara of all the crazy things people did in his name and how difficult it was to practice compassion and love all the time. Mara saw his point. "The best thing is for each of us is to stay in his or her own position and try to improve the situation and enjoy what we are doing," Buddha said. 

Hahn explains that it's easy for us to think of Buddha as a flower, fresh and beautiful, and compare Mara to garbage, that is unwanted and stinky, but this is a limited point of view. "All flowers become garbage," Hanh says. "Although garbage stinks ... if you know how to take care of the garbage, you will transform it back into flowers ...  Flowers and garbage are of an organic nature because both ... are living realities. Buddha and Mara are also organic, and they need each other. It is thanks to the difficulties, thanks to the temptations, that the Buddha has overcome his suffering and his ignorance and become a fully enlightened being ... That is why the people who suffer a lot now should not be discouraged. Suffering is their garbage. If they know how to take good care of their garbage they will be able to make the flowers come back to them, the flowers of peace, of joy."

Just as Buddha needs Mara, I need those negative thoughts to challenge and help me perceive the truth. Of course, sitting with my negative thoughts and not responding to them takes effort and self awareness. But ultimately, if I take good care of my garbage, I can turn my doubt into roses.

The Mother of all Mother's Day Wishes

FTD would love me if I send roses to all my mothers.

Celebrating Mother's Day reminds me of a prayer we say at the Buddhist center called the Eight Verses for Training the Mind. (For those unfamiliar with Buddhist practice, the title of this intersession says it all. I mean, what other spiritual practice asks for help training the mind? This is why I love Buddhism. Anyway, I digress ... )

My Mom, 1972

The Eight Verses compose a beautiful prayer that asks for wisdom and a shift in perspective when encountering difficult situations and—especially—when interacting with difficult people. It's the whole "my enemy is my greatest teacher" thing. You know, realizing that people who are obnoxious or mean or otherwise unpleasant are really helping me more than people who are pleasant and kind and compassionate because I have to really work hard to overcome my aversion to unpleasant assholes.

Digressing, again ...

We say this prayer and ask to transform our minds so that we can perceive the truth. The seventh verse is relevant today:

In brief, may I offer benefit and joy
To all my mothers, both directly and indirectly,
May I quietly take upon myself
All hurts and pains of my mothers.

The first hundred times or so I recited this verse, I didn't really understand it. I thought it was an analogy or metaphor. But as I learned more about Buddhist beliefs, this verse took on a  deeper meaning. I still can't claim to fully understand it, ( His Holiness the Dalai Lama provides a commentary on this pray on his website which I linked here and above,) but what I do understand now has opened up my heart to the world—at least on my less-bitchy days.

Buddhists believe everyone has been born in various forms countless times. Therefore, the theory follows that at some time or another my mindstream (or consciousness) has been embodied as your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, your cat, your dog, your hamster. And visa versa. In sum: We're all spiritually related. (And no, not like the backwoods characters in a James Dickey novel.) This may or may not be a literal relationship. No one really knows, except maybe someone like the Dalai Lama. The point is that I should revere all beings as if they gave me birth. I should not discriminate about who I love if I am to truly practice compassion. All life is precious. All men and woman are of equal value. That's equanimity, and it's tough to practice.

In a literal—but not necessarily Buddhist—sense, I should revere all my fore-mothers and recognize that their suffering is my suffering. This is what Buddhists call karma, or action, the law of cause and effect. I am indeed obliged to the woman who conceived, carried and gave birth to me as I am to the woman who gave birth to her, etc. Likewise, I am the product of all my forefathers and and their mothers and fathers. If not for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-infinity-grandparents, I would not be here today exactly as I am. Millions of actions had to happen exactly as they happened, when they happened, in order for me to have been conceived and my mindstream to have joined this particular body.  I revere that amazing process and how incredibly miraculous life is. When I start to think about it all ... well, it's mind-blowing.

Today and every day, I pray for the benefit and joy of all my fore-mothers and I humbly (quietly) take on all their harm and suffering. In doing so, I accept that I am the sum of the parts, the product of all that has happened and that I have a part in what will happen. My actions matter—often more than I count on or know. How I respond to life does not just affect my happiness, but it affects the happiness of all those around me, and all those around them, and so on, and so on ...

So Happy Mother's Day to my dear mother in this life and all my mothers infinitum!

Eight Verses for Training of the Mind*

With the determination to accomplish the highest welfare for all sentient beings who surpass even a wish granting jewel, I will learn to hold them supremely dear.

Whenever I associate with others I will learn to think of myself as the lowest among all and respectfully hold others to be supreme from the very depths of my heart.

In all actions I will learn to search into my mind and as soon as an afflictive emotion arises, endangering myself or others, I will firmly face and avert it.

I will learn to cherish beings of bad nature, and those pressed by strong sins and suffering as if I'd found a precious treasure very difficult to find.

When others out of jealousy treat me badly, with abuse, slander and so on, I will learn to take all loss and offer the victory to them.

When one whom I've benefited with great hope unreasonably harms me very badly, I will learn to view that person as an excellent spiritual guide.

In short, I will learn to offer to everyone all hope and happiness directly and indirectly and respectfully take upon myself all harm and suffering of my mothers.

I will learn to keep all these practices undefiled by the stains of the eight worlds conceptions, and by understanding all phenomenon are like illusions, be released from the bondage of attachment to self.

*There are many translations and this is the one we say at Losel Maitri Buddhist Center.

The Great White

Two weeks ago, under a dome of thick cloud-cover, I dropped Jack at his school at 7:45 a.m. There was talk of snow, but it was expected later in the day. If the National Weather Service declares a winter storm system is moving across Alabama at 3 p.m., you figure you have most of the day to do whatever it is you do until that happens—if it happens. I don't know what the forecasters saw on their screens, but I believe they did their best to let us know what was coming.

For days we struggled with this phenomenon. The conditions created terrible hardships for thousands of people. If my child had been stuck at his school, I would have been frantic. I was grateful that he could safely walk two blocks to his dad's house and enjoy the time off—and the white stuff—with his neighborhood friends. Some people were trapped in their offices. Others could not get to work and lost income. Cars and property were damaged. Stress and anxiety levels rose chiefly because this was a situation beyond our control. And many did what we do best when we are threatened: look for someone to blame.

In record time, the blame game began. The National Weather Service and local forecasters took the first wave of criticism. Others ranted against public officials, implying they were trying to downplay the hazard, much like Mayor Vaughn in the movie Jaws when he tries to keep the economy going despite the fact that a Great White is circling the shore. When bad things happen, we want to find someone to blame. But you can't blame the weather for being exactly what it is—unpredictable—anymore than you can blame a Great White shark for eating. You can, however, try to stay out of harm's way.

This week, another winter storm threat circled and the National Weather Service reported as best they could. Officials received the information and made the decision to close schools. Yesterday it rained. The threat remained. Schools were closed for a second day. Today, it rained again.

No snow. No school. No one to blame. In the middle of the week, in the middle of February, we're home together. Jack's not sick and he's not suspended for bad behavior. We've spent the last two days watching movies and building a Minecraft world out of paper blocks. We've slept in, talked and laughed and eaten scrambled eggs and bacon at noon. I might be getting more done if the weather was sunny and the schools were open, but I will never have this day—just as it is—again and I'm going to make the most of it.